


In Memoriam

by Xanoka



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aph rarepair exchange, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Christmas, Christmas Goats, Christmas Jumpers, Could Be Considered Gen, Gen, Gävle Christmas Goat, Late gift, M/M, Secret Santa, Sweden - Freeform, Vandalism, Yule Goat - Freeform, rarepair, ugly christmas jumpers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:08:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanoka/pseuds/Xanoka
Summary: "Why," he asked carefully.  "Have you given me a sweater of a burning goat?"Gil grinned, the cat who got the cream.  Or the cow.  A whole Dairy, even."It's tradition , isn't it?  I hear, in your country it is a tradition to burn goats at Christmas."It's Christmas 2016 and Gilbert has decided to give Berwald a present.  It is not entirely appreciated.  In Sweden goats are serious business.  A very late gift for the Aph Rarepair Exchange. Sorry for the delay!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twoscarypandas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoscarypandas/gifts).



> Hey Panda G, I'm so sorry this is so late! I've had some personal drama going on, patchy internet access, then I lost the original story I was working on for the exchange. So I ended up writing something completely different. On the bright side, I finally got to write something about the Gävle Christmas Goats, an annual tradition in Sweden that I find sweet and kind of hilarious. 
> 
> (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gävle_goat)
> 
> So thank you for the prompt! I think you probably got a gift from someone else, but as your original Secret Santa, I wanted to give you something too. :)

"Waaaaaldieeeee!"

Berwald recognised that particular wheedling whine and huffed, refusing to look up from his book. He was comfortable in his chair, his mug of tea was hot and ready for him at his elbow. He was three chapters in. He would not be moved.

"Waaaaaldieee! Where are you?"

Berwald knew he had the kind of Resting Face that made children cry, and usually he tried hard to counteract that. Usually. He let his frown deepen.

"Ah! There you are! Berwald! I have been looking everywhere!"

He would not look up from his book.

"I know. I heard you."

"But you didn't answer!"

"I know. I heard you."

Gilbert let out a crack of laughter. Berwald pointedly turned a page.  
"I'm reading."

Gilbert stood and considered him for a moment. He was far from stupid and, despite what all the other _assholes_ said about him, he liked reading. His bosses patronised the arts. He just preferred more active pursuits.

"What are you reading, then?" He leaned over Berwald's shoulder and made a face. _"The Wealth of Nations?_ What are you doing reading _that?_ It's so dry!"

Berwald determinedly turned another page.

"It's a classic."

"It's out of date!"

"Classics are never out of date."

Gilbert paused, then grinned wickedly. "Heeey! Beeerwald! You know what else is a Classic? I will give you a hint. It's me." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

And finally, _finally_ Berwald looked up, snapping the book shut with a crack.

"What is it you want, Gil?"

"Ah! Yes!" He smiled widely, and for such an arrogant, _annoying_ dick, he could look sweetly, childishly excited sometimes. "I came to tell you. I got you a present!"

That was unexpected.

"It's the third of December."

"So?"

"Christmas is still three weeks away."

Gil affected a wounded expression.

"What? I can't get you a present whenever I want? Besides. You need it _now."_

The smile was starting to look a lot less innocent, and Berwald's suspicions were stirring.

"I do?"

"Yes! Look! He spread his arms in an all-encompassing voila gesture. Berwald stared blankly back. Gil huffed with annoyance. " Look!" He scolded, gesturing at his torso.

He looked and immediately regretted it. It was like his eyes were melting.

"What is _that?"_

_It_ was hideous. Neon orange and lumpy looking, with little green splodges he couldn't quite identify, like something a very sick cat might cough up.

Gilbert looked genuinely hurt.

"It's a sweater! For Christmas! That is the tradition, right? Or is it just in America? I made it myself!"

Berwald felt a sinking feeling in his gut, a mixture of guilt and impending doom.

"I see."

And he sort of could. The cat-sick splodges looked vaguely like Christmas trees. If you squinted.

"And I made you one!"

Just as he'd feared.

As he watched with trepidation, Gilbert produced a package wrapped in newspaper from somewhere and thrust it at him. It would have been rather sweet. Except that Gil was still looking at him with that expression of gleeful anticipation. Like he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He took the gift cautiously. Unwrapped it. Found a scarlet mound of lumpy knitting , managing to look vaguely ominous.

"Open it!" Gil urged.

He did, unfolding the material carefully. He stared.

It was. Were they some kind of animal? Lots of little fourlegged creatures in wonky rows, like a typical Christmas jumper. Were they reindeer, perhaps? Right in the centre was a much larger one, basking in a startlingly bright ball of yellow. Something about it was tickling a memory.

He frowned.

Gil, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with pent-up mirth.

"Are they reindeer?" He asked carefully.

Gil practically choked.

"No!"

He looked more closely. He'd say they were horses, if not for the arching curves from their foreheads, almost touching their backs.  
Familiar looking. His brows furrowed with dawning understanding.

Oh no.

"These are goats."

Gil cackled in confirmation.

His eyes fell on the largest one. Surrounded by yellow. Like a sun. Or a fireball.

"This one's on fire."

"Yes!" Gil crowed. He was actually wriggling where he stood, like an overexcited puppy. The adorable bastard.

"Why," he asked carefully. "Have you given me a sweater of a burning goat?"

Gil grinned, the cat who got the cream. Or the cow. A whole Dairy, even.

"It's tradition , isn't it? I hear, in your country it is a tradition to burn goats at Christmas. Ah!"

He shrieked as he danced out of the way to avoid grasping hands, his strange _kekekke_ laughter trailing behind him.

Berwald glowered and sat back down, giving up on chasing after him.

He was talking about the Gävle Goat. Just the thought of it drained the energy from him. This year's Goat had only survived a few hours. It was _too soon_ to be making jokes about it.

"Not every year! And it is not a tradition. Just vandals being assholes."

His glower deepened as he stared at Gil, who certainly fit the profile. Gil bristled back.

" _I_  didn't do it!"

"So you say."

He didn't believe it, not really. As much as Gil liked to be a jerk and wind him up, he knew he really cared. Deep down. And not so deep down. He could even be sweet. He just didn't like to show it. Damn Templars and their Celibacy and Catholic Guilt.

And Berwald was a patient man, his temper slower than a glacier. He understood.

But making fun of the Goat was out of line. He continued to frown disapprovingly, watching Gil cringe.

" No! Waldie! I would not do this!". Gil sounded truly distressed. He almost felt bad. The non-feeling didn't last, however. Gilbert always liked to dig himself a hole. "I mean, it's very funny," he looked like he was barely refraining from laughing, shaking his head before carrying on. "But I know you love your Goat! I'm not Alfred, I would not do this!"

"Don't!"

He hated being reminded to that whole incident. Stupid American tourist, burning his Christmas Goat to the ground. Alfred had just laughed and never apologised. Apart from official business, he still wasn't speaking to that American Bastard, who _still_ hadn't paid the damages.

"But seriously, Waldie, you must admit. It happens almost every year."

That, at least, was true. In the fifty years since the tradition of building a giant straw goat in Gävle had started, it had burned down thirty one times, been rammed by a car, smashed by thugs thrice, damaged by water or just collapsed. Yet the good citizens of Gävle still rallied round and built a new one every year. It made him feel proud, like it said something about his People's character, their humour, optimism and perseverance.

Oh course, the annual fate of the Goat spoke loudly too. He just chose not to listen.

(Most of all, he ignored what tolerating Gil said about him.)

But the confidence was deflating and Gil was looking uncertain, as if he was finally considering the possibility that he'd gone too far. And that drained the anger right out of him, like a lanced boil, as it did every time.

"You're right," he admitted, and Gil smiled tentatively.

And then, because it would be rude not to and definitely _not_ because he was a pushover for that rare, shy smile, he stood up and pulled the sweater on, fumbling as he found the correct openings for various body parts and wishing he'd thought to take his glasses off first.

The brief struggle was worth it, though. When he finally emerged (the jumper was a little tight, making manoeuvering tricky) Gil was beaming at him, a genuine, pleased smile. Better still, Gil came over, gently tugging the material down where it was rucked and running his hands over his chest appreciatively.

"There. Waldie you look good!"

And there was that warm surge of slightly baffled affection. There was no way he looked anything but ridiculous in this tight, luridly bright, misshapen, bizarrely decorated sartorial monstrosity. He had a sudden, vivid mental image of how the pair of them would look to an outsider, in their matched-in-ugliness Christmas jumpers. And he knew, with sudden certainty, that there was no way Gil wouldn't insist on wearing them if and when Feliks decided to host a Christmas party this year.

"It's still not funny," he said severely. Gil nodded contritely. "But..." He brushed his finger against the Fire Ball Goat. "I am going to wear this out of respect for the Goats we have lost."

Gil perked up and grinned, detecting the glimmer of humour others usually missed.

"You should, Waldie! You should! In Loving Memory."

Berwald finally smiled, letting himself be pulled into a hug.

"In Memoriam," he agreed. "Of the Good Goats of Gävle."


End file.
